The Epitome of the History of His Family
by rosenritter
Summary: The 3rd and final epilogue to 'Expectations' - read the previous stories for best results. Once upon a time, Sebastian Moran and Jim Moriarty had a hormone-fueled romp in a decrepit mental asylum. Some time later, a young boy found himself the recipient of some rather strange - and unsettling - gifts. And then... Alpha/Beta/Omegaverse, mpreg, MorMor, JohnLock. PLEASE READ WARNINGS.
1. What Will I Do When I Don't Have You

**TRIGGER WARNINGS:** This chapter pokes around in Moriarty's brain quite a bit. As a result, there's some pretty nasty stuff within, including violence and a non-graphic description of the rape of an unnamed character. Please, please, *please* use personal discretion before you read. The last thing I want is to accidentally trigger someone.

The title of this chapter comes from some lyrics of song by The Mountain Goats, "Oceanographer's Choice". Unfortunately, won't let me include the full title because it's too long. So, on Archive of Our Own, the title of this chapter is "What Will I Do When I Don't Have You (To Hold Onto in the Dark)".

I also had to edit this because I originally listed the characters in this fic as Moriarty and Sebastian _Wilkes_. I thought it said Moran. Too many Sebastians in Sherlockverse, I tell you. Pah!

All that aside, let me leave you with a quote before the story begins.

* * *

_"There are some trees, Watson, which grow to a certain height, and then suddenly develop some unsightly eccentricity. You will see it often in humans. I have a theory that the individual represents in his development the whole procession of his ancestors, and that such a sudden turn to good or evil stands for some strong influence which came into the line of his pedigree. The person becomes, as it were, the epitome of the history of his own family."_

_"It is surely rather fanciful."_

_- Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson ("The Adventure of the Empty House")_

* * *

What little light the room possessed filtered in through the thin cracks of a barely-open venetian blind; it was only enough to weaken some of the shadows, introducing a few shades of dark grey into what would have otherwise been a murky blackness. A lone figure sat in this small and secret corner of the world, silhouetted faintly against the window and peering out the blind.

Without moving its eyes from the window, the figure reached to a nearby table, grabbing a cigarette and an old and battered Zippo lighter. For one brief moment, the flame of the lighter added an orange glow to the man's face, streaked though it was by the thick, dark lines of the shadows' continued presence. The light went out, leaving only the dim glow of the cigarette in the darkness. The man took a long drag and exhaled the smoke into the room.

On the third drag of the cigarette, a small, flashing blue light appeared on the table. The man turned, seeing it in his keen peripheral vision. He picked up the item that was making the light, and with a quick swipe of his thumb, his face was awash in light again.

He read the text and grinned in the soft, digital glow from the phone.

_Let's play a game.  
Jim_

The man snuffed out the remains of his cigarette on the table. He flipped the phone sideways and began typing a response.

_What kind?_

_Hide and seek. And I do wish you'd sign your texts.  
Jim_

_Not my style._

_Cheeky. I'll have to punish you for that.  
Jim_

_When's the game?_

_Two weeks next Saturday.  
Jim_

_I'll be entering heat around then._

_Why, so you will. What a coincidence!  
Jim_

The man gazed at that line, contemplating. His left hand reached up to rub at the stubble on his chin.

_Thought you were homodynamic. _

_I'm a lot of things. But comparing me to people like that Adler woman really does me a disservice. You wound me, soldier boy.  
Jim_

The man sighed, stretching. As he thought about his response, the phone lit up again.

_Should've expected it from your skill set. Shot through the heart, and you're to blame.  
Jim_

Husky, quiet laughter broke the silence in the room.

_Rules?_

_You hide. I seek. High stakes.  
Jim_

_Got an idea what 'high stakes' means, but elaborate._

_No contraceptives.  
Jim_

_I always go without. I'd only need them if I got caught. Draw your own conclusions there._

_Tut tut. So cocky. So risky. What would your secondary school health teachers say?  
Jim_

_That I'm a good Catholic boy. Nuns, every last one of them._

_Saw the harsh end of countless rulers, I'm sure.  
Jim_

_You know I was a model student. Where?_

_Hellingly Hospital.  
Jim_

_Such a romantic._

_Guilty as charged. x  
Jim_

The man grinned. He looked at the phone's internal clock and nodded to himself.

_Got to go. Work._

_Wonderful. Do make them see reason.  
Jim_

_Got it, boss._

He put the phone aside and returned his gaze to the window. Far, far down the street, two ambassadors were about to join together with several mediators to engage in an early morning peace meeting, all in the hopes that this would keep their turbulent country from plunging head-first into a civil war. The first ambassador stepped out of his car, flanked by security detail.

A bullet is the most dynamic inanimate object in existence in that, sometimes, you only need one to completely change the world. For example, in the right kind of circumstance, a single well-placed bullet can ensure the deaths of thousands upon thousands of people who would otherwise be alive and well.

Sebastian Moran raised his AS50 rifle to balance on the windowsill, peered through the scope, and changed the world.

* * *

It was the start of April – the heart and soul of spring – but Hellingly hadn't yet received that message. The sun had been down less than an hour and already the temperature was a brisk 10 degrees. The high humidity and lingering cloud cover of the day had created the perfect formula for the dense, choking fog that had rolled in. The trees, still skeletal and bare from the winter's great freeze, shivered like half-seen, emaciated ghouls in the mist.

The dense silence was pierced by a whistled rendition of ABBA's "Take a Chance on Me" as a figure sauntered through the gloom, bobbing his head in time with the music as it flowed from his pursed lips.

The weather couldn't have been more perfect if Jim Moriarty had engineered it himself. As good as he was at setting every single domino up precisely as he planned (mostly so he could get the satisfaction of knocking them all down later at his own discretion), not even he could control the natural elements yet. It was awfully considerate of the universe to set things up as well as it had.

The dulcet tones of Swedish disco faded out with one last, long whistle. A lazy grin spread across his lips as the first signs of Hellingly Hospital began to come into view. The massive complex seemed to materialise before him as if brought into existence by condensing darkness and fog.

He stopped. About five meters in front of him, just beyond the vine-twisted chain-link fence, stood the shape of another man. His right hand clasped one of the links in the fence.

"Hit you yet, then?" Moriarty asked. "Your biology?"

Moran didn't answer. Nor did he move, aside from tightening his grip on the link.

"Ah. Downwind. I see. Well, best get things chugging along then, if that's how you are already. How's a hundred second head start sound? But you know me, Sebastian. Even if it sounded absolutely dreadful…" Moriarty's smile showed so, so much of his teeth. "I'd do it anyway. One… two… three…"

Moran's hand slid from the fence, and he backed away toward the facility. In moments, he had disappeared within the murky darkness.

Moriarty continued to count up in a bored monotone. Finally, when he hit 100, he began walking forward again. "Ready or not," he called, knocking aside a rusted sign from its perch on the fence. He trod on it as he entered, his shoe covering the word 'CONDEMNED'. "Here I come."

* * *

He had always known he wasn't ordinary. As long as he could remember, it was a fact of life: the sky was blue, the grass was green, the sun rose in the east, and Jim Moriarty was not like other people.

It wasn't a problem for him. He wasn't the sort to wallow in existential misery over being a square peg in a world that was covered in round holes as far as the eye could see, or to shiver in the chill of being ostracised over his differences. No. But he was in a position to get a good laugh out of all of it – seeing all the silly people with their silly concerns and silly drives working themselves into tizzies over such stupid, trivial fare. And he _had_ had a few good laughs – a few great thundering moments of hilarity - but you can only get so many chuckles from the same joke for so long before it starts to grate at you like a pebble that refuses to dislodge from your shoe.

But he really did hate it when those ordinary people thought they could get their own laughs at the same joke. They had no idea about its vastness and subtleties and could not truly appreciate it.

So, when the joke itself began to grow stale, it took no effort at all to start down a different path. He started by dislodging the huge, dull, and particularly grating pebble from Carl Powers' trainers, which he kept next to his own expensive dress loafers for years and years before he found the perfect place to drop them off.

Puberty added another twist. For his whole life, he had been certain that he was an Alpha. Although it would be a decade and change before science advanced enough to screen children early for their reproductive dynamic, Moriarty knew his place deep down in his bones with absolute certainty while all the other boys and non-Alpha girls waited with bated breath for adolescence to reveal their results in the genetic lottery.

His certainty wasn't dampened even when his head remained clear while all the other Alphas turned into slavering, mindless animals when an Omega got a little too close to her or his heat in school. Normally such a resistance to an Omega's pheromones was a sure sign of being a Beta, but he knew better.

He had felt the mad drumming of his pulse as it shot hormone-laden blood through his veins. He did not need to see himself in a mirror to know his pupils had blown wide. He had wanted to scratch through every inch of his skin, wanted to rip and tear at himself with his blunt nails, to get to the itch deep down. He knew the intense pressure, the unmistakable tightening of flesh, as a knot formed.

But he didn't need scent for that. The scent of a fertile Omega alone was utterly meaningless, and the fact that that alone was enough to stoke the fires of so many Alphas was a disgrace. He needed atmosphere. He needed _artistry_. What he needed was the look in her eyes as a moment of clarity clawed its way through the heat-fevered fog that had settled over her brain. Then there were her hands - trembling with ruined grip thanks to the combination of fear and uncontrollable, unwanted arousal – as they fumbled at the handle of the gymnasium door. Locked. And best of all, how her look of absolute horror melted into the frenzy of her heat as she was set upon, and though she acquiesced to her traitorous biology, a small quirk in the set of her brow screamed and screamed and screamed the whole way through.

He didn't even need to be there. He was fine watching the whole thing through the camera he'd set up in the gymnasium.

Too bad it was a one-time use sort of trick. Once others had finally pried the doors open and saw what had happened, saw her treatment at the hands of five Alpha teachers, the Omega rights groups were up in arms and the media sensation was outrageous. Laws were passed prohibiting Alphas from working in co-ed schools with underage students. What a downer.

She dropped out of school almost immediately after that. And she'd wanted to be a nurse, too. What a shame, what a life in shambles.

What was her name again?

No matter.

It was dust now anyway.

* * *

Jim Moriarty's eyes darted wildly beneath his lids as he scented the air. Damp earth reclaiming parts of the floor, mould creeping beneath peeling paint and crumbling plaster, rust and corrosion tainting unmaintained metal.

And deep, deep in that heady aroma, a trace of _Sebastian_, whose scent defied Omega convention by complimenting the delicious sour tang of decay and ruin so very well.

Moriarty's eyes fluttered open as he released his long breath.

He set his hand against what remained of a window, clouded with the filth of ages and cracked from disuse. When he moved it, he left behind his print in the grime. He looked down at the dark smudge on his hand and clapped it away, sending more dust motes into the heavy air. His peripheral vision caught a faint hint of movement through the handprint, and he turned to glare at it. The window revealed a large courtyard, which was enormously overrun with wild grass and weeds. The crumbled pile of brick that had once been Hellingly's enormous water tower lay at the far end of the yard. Two figures waded through the cumbersome overgrowth, brandishing their torches wildly.

Moriarty switched off his own torch. He thrust his hands into his pockets, and watched them approach. As they drew nearer, he glanced around until his gaze settled on a crumbled hole in the wall which seemed to lead to the courtyard. He smiled.

"Bleeding hell, let's just get out of here. It's like every nightmare I ever had got into an orgy and this is the result."

"You're being paranoid. We go in, tag some shit, snap a few pics, and leave."

"Naw, man, mark my words. We get in there, and there'll be some rusty old phonograph, and soon as we start investigating the room, it'll turn itself on and start playing an ancient, crackly version of Ave Maria. Fuck, that's if we're lucky. You _know_ there's some old porcelain doll sitting on a creaky rocking chair in there, and it'll turn its head to us as we walk past. Christ, just thinking about it is giving me goose flesh."

The young men were likely no older than twenty, based on their mannerisms. It was nigh impossible to make out much of their features between the combination of the murky darkness, their oversized hoodies, and the bandanas wrapped over most of their faces. The calmer one carried a torch in one hand and a shopping bag which made the tell-tale clinks and rustles of cans of spray paint knocking against each other. The jumpier of the two had his own torch in his left hand and a board with a nail in it in his right. He brandished his weapon nervously.

"I thought Alphas were supposed to have big balls of steel, mate. You're acting like – Shit!" The calmer one dodged a rogue swing from his friend. "You fucking idiot, stop twirling that around. Why'd you bring it, anyway? It's not like it'd do much for you if this place really _were_ haunted."

The jittery delinquent dropped his weapon. His anxious twitches were gone in an instant, leaving him stone still. "Do you smell that?"

"Smell what? Feral cat piss? Because if so, the answer is an emphatic yes."

"No," the Alpha snapped. He breathed in again deeply. "It's faint. And it's… weird." His brows furrowed in confusion. "But it's still… it's unquestionably… oh God, there's an Omega in heat somewhere in the area."

The other youth scoffed. "Beta, mate. You get to pick up on that, while I'm left smelling damp and animal wee."

The Alpha pulled down his bandana to smell the air deeper. He was still spotty from adolescence and possessed a patchy blond goatee that he was probably very proud of. "I have to find… where…" he murmured.

In the shadows, Jim Moriarty cleared his throat. The delinquents' torchlights were on him in an instant. His pupils constricted in the light, and his teeth glinted.

"Is it this…?" the Beta asked the Alpha, gesturing vaguely.

Moriarty rolled his eyes, stepping a few feet closer to the youths. "Oh puh-_lease_," he groaned. "How blind can one be?" He pulled his left hand from his pocket, mimicking the shape of a gun with his fingers. He pointed it at the Beta's head and flexed his thumb 'trigger', imitating blast recoil with his hand as he did so.

A bullet tore through the Beta's head from the back, splattering Moriarty and the Alpha with blood and tissue. His corpse slumped to the ground.

The Alpha screamed and began to hyperventilate as terrified tears fell from his eyes. "And as for you," Moriarty said, pointing his 'gun' at the young man. "This is a private party. I really hate sharing." He pulled the trigger again, and a bullet ripped through the youth's back, embedding in his heart. He fell, his body seizing once and his eyes drifting out of focus as he died.

Moriarty held his 'gun' up to his lips and blew imaginary smoke away from his index finger. He strolled a few feet past the bleeding bodies. "No, really, I nearly had to repeat my first year in school because of the sharing thing. Promise you two won't tell anybody that little secret?" Silence. "Good boys."

He grinned at the remains of the water tower. Moran had set his torch down facing up at his feet, illuminating him from the bottom up. A pistol glinted in his right hand.

"Are you going to pay my dry cleaning bill?" Moriarty called across the yard, gesturing to the blood and fragments of brain matter clinging to his suit. "It must come out of your card money, not from what I pay you. Otherwise, what's the point?"

Moran gave a thumbs-up with his free hand.

Moriarty kissed the palm of his left hand and blew it in the Omega's direction. Moran slipped his pistol into the waistband of his fatigue trousers and reached up to catch the kiss.

Moriarty knew that even if he broke into a sprint, even if he pushed every last one of his muscles to the breaking point to reach his target, Moran would slip away before he could get there. The perfect time was nearly upon them – it was so very, very close – but not quite yet. Their elaborate dance had a few steps left.

So, he did not run. He strolled, watching as Moran stretched down to turn off his torch, arching his back a bit more sensually than the process required. When Moriarty flicked on his own light and shone it at the former water tower, Moran was gone.

The Beta's blood was cooling against Moriarty's cheek. He shut his eyes, shivering at the divine sensation of another's warmth dissipating permanently into the air. When he opened them again, he set off once more.

* * *

Hellingly played tricks on the eyes, and Jim Moriarty appreciated a finely-crafted trick.

By torchlight, the shadows of Hellingly danced and whirled in the corners of ruined hallways, seemed to cling to the shattered glass and rusted hinges of ward doors, warped the dimensions of abandoned chairs and beds. They fled from the light, pooling and waiting in secret corners until they could spill back out and reclaim their rightful territory. Hellingly was theirs now, and they were possessive masters.

As Moriarty moved his torch and watched the writhing of the shadows, he caught sight of a human shape in one of the small bathing rooms. Steadying his light, it was revealed to be a drawing. Someone had painted a black and white portrait of a ghostly woman against the wall; from the doorway, she appeared to be bathing in the grime-blackened tub that took up most of the room's area.

Moriarty examined the tub closer. It was surprisingly clean in comparison to much of the rest of the hospital, with fewer layers of grit and dust in the basin than he had expected. On a whim, he stepped into the tub and sat, eventually working himself into a lounging position. He already had person all over his suit; what was a little muck from a disused tub?

When he gazed at the low ceiling, the ambient light from his torch allowed him to notice a small hole directly above his head. He moved the torchlight to cover it.

A pathetic man would have yelped at what he saw. A lesser man would have jumped. But he was neither of these things. "Hello again, Seb," he said.

A single clear blue eye gazed down at him through the hole. He stared back. Moran was an infrequent blinker; it was a quality that unnerved normal people, who could never appreciate how very entertaining such a quality made staring contests.

Brown and blue eyes locked together, Moriarty lounging in his tub and Moran, certainly, pressed bodily against the yellowed, cracking tiles of the room above. Moriarty imagined what the sound of Moran's nails slowly scraping against the floor must be like.

Finally, Moran moved away from the hole.

"Ha," Moriarty breathed. "I win."

"Never intended to win the game," Moran murmured through the hole. "Seems that's the theme of the day."

"Even if you _did_ intend to win, the conclusion was foregone," Moriarty replied. "By hook or by crook, Sebastian, I get what I want."

"Then come collect your prize in the main hall."

Moriarty smirked, pulling himself up and out of the tub. He brushed as much of the dust off of his suit as he could, then mimicked drying himself off and wrapping a towel around his head like a turban. "Do I get a crown?" he asked. There was no response. Moran had left without making a sound. The world's only consulting criminal sighed and continued. "Eventually I'll get a crown for a job well done."

He strode out of the room, oriented himself toward the main hall, and let the shadows twisting at the edge of his torchlight guide him there.

* * *

It was an obvious trap. The distribution of dust and dirt over the cracked boards – themselves carefully arranged to simply look like wood warped by years of moisture and cycles of unchecked freezes and thaws – was too precise to have fallen there through years of random accumulation. Then there was the fact that there was bait; Moran had made _very_ liberal use of his scent in constructing the trap.

Warmth crept under Moriarty's collar as the image of Moran's hand, slick with his own lubrication, purposefully moving against the grey, bent wood popped into his head. He loosened his tie.

Yes, it was a very obvious trap. Someone like the young Alpha whose glassy eyes stared unseeing at the cloud cover as his congealing blood nourished the courtyard weeds would have fallen for it instantly, but he wasn't the intended recipient. Moriarty was. Moriarty, who prided himself on seeing through every ruse and gambit under the sun. Therefore, it was a symbolic move more than anything else.

After such a lovely evening, it was a sentiment Moriarty was willing to indulge.

He adjusted his loosened tie enough to slip the top three buttons on his shirt out of their holes. He began to stroll around the perimeter of the covered hole, tugging on his shirt to fan himself. "Is it getting hot in here?" he asked the empty hall. His eyes darted around, looking for likely hiding places. "Or is it just you?"

For a moment, the moon broke through the clouds, and a tiny degree of light came in through great hall's many windows. It was only for an instant, but it was enough. There. Crouching beneath graffiti which read 'HOME SWEET HOME'.

Moriarty stopped walking around the perimeter. He smiled. "They don't know what they're missing, all those people who lose track of everything once they get a whiff of a nice scent. A feast for all senses is so much better. Because not only is scent still part of the deal-" He took in a deep, luxurious breath through his nose to drive the point home. "But my sense of sight has been treated to gorgeous scenery… and I got to win that staring contest. And touch-" He ran a finger over the dried blood on his cheek. "Has had a nice prelude. A good appetizer for the main course."

His grin turned particularly predatory. "If you're wondering about taste and hearing… I am going to lick the salt from your skin. I am going to bite down hard on your clavicle, and my teeth will vibrate against the strength of the bone even as my taste buds sting with the metal in your blood. And I am going to fuck you until you _scream_, until your larynx burns and all you can do is whisper choked pleas against my lips."

A small sound came from the darkness. It was not a gasp of desire, not a moan of barely contained lust, not a whimper of need. It was a sigh: long and ragged, delivered through clenched teeth. It blended in with the distant sounds of settling, creaking wood and wind whispering through cracks and holes in the walls.

"Now then," Moriarty said. "Shall we?"

And with that, he took one step back and fell through the floor.

He landed on a mattress. When the dust and debris cleared, Moriarty saw jugs of water and boxes and tins of food – simple staples like vegetables, fruit medleys, and beef stew. Fancy food and heats rarely went together; there wasn't much of a point, when the relevant parties would be physically incapable of focusing enough to appreciate it.

Moran had been telling the truth. Not only had he never planned on winning, but he had prepared for his loss meticulously.

"Ah, Sebastian, ever the pragmatist," Moriarty said. He shone his torchlight back up the hole, where Moran gazed down at him with a small quirk to his lips. His chest rose and fell with heavy, ragged breaths. Even in the light, his eyes were wide and his pupils dilated, giving them a feral quality.

"Looks like I caught a beastie," he said. His voice was thick and raw.

Moriarty sprawled out on the mattress. "So you have. The most dangerous one of all."

"Don't know about that. Maybe I've crawled after worse things."

"Oh," Moriarty said, drawing out the sound, closing his eyes as he leisurely shook his head. "I doubt that very, very much."

Moran grinned. "Well, if I ever get to say those words again, they'll be accurate. Forever and always."

And he leapt into the abyss.

* * *

Just under nine months later, James Augustus Moran was born - named for two men who, while alive at the time of his birth, would not be so for very long thereafter. Less than a month later, Augustus Moran would fall asleep in his favourite armchair and have his heart quietly stop ticking an hour into his nap, never knowing he had a grandson. Jim Moriarty would blow his own brains out five months later, with complete knowledge of his actions and who was left behind.

Thanks to a (very well paid) 'small clerical error', the boy would be sixteen months old before any of his records and information appeared in official databases accessible to minor government officials.

Even then, several portions of his birth certificate were left blank, which really said everything to certain scrutinizing eyes.


	2. I'm Here for You, James See? I'm Real

**NOTE:** The title for this chapter comes from a very powerful line from the game "Silent Hill 2". Like "Oceanographer's Choice" for the first chapter, the main song from SH2 - 'Theme of Laura' - was a major musical influence when this part was written.

As always, thoughts are appreciated. :) And with no further ado, here's the 2nd chapter.

* * *

Jamie had successfully kicked the same pebble from his schoolyard all the way down a long and winding street, over a cobblestone bridge, and even down a span of pavement dominated by metal grating. When he turned onto the street where he lived, he gave the pebble one last, great kick in the direction of his flat. He kept an eye out for the pebble, hoping to see that it had had a successful launch. However, as he got closer to his destination, his attention diverted to something much more interesting than improvised pebble golf.

There was a package leaning against the door of his flat. It was long and rectangular, wrapped in off-white paper with a bright red ribbon tied around it, complete with an ornate bow. He picked it up; it was surprisingly light for its size, and he easily tucked it under one arm. He noticed a small tag, slightly yellowed, hanging from the bow. The tag felt slightly brittle in his hand, so he carefully folded it open.

There, in unfamiliar handwriting, was a name. _Jamie._

Jamie fumbled in his trouser pocket for the key to the flat as his mind raced with possibilities. His birthday and The Other Holiday were later in the month, but he'd never received a present so early. Then there was the question of who left such a premature present. The handwriting was clearly an adult's, so it couldn't be any of his classmates. His grandmother had died three months prior, and before that, a massive stroke had left her largely incapacitated for the past seven years. His grandfather had died when he was still a tiny baby, and to his knowledge he had no aunts, uncles, or other extended family. That left only one person.

"It's not Da's handwriting, though," Jamie murmured to himself as he scrutinized the tag. He set the gift on the kitchen table. He knew he shouldn't open it without confirming the situation with his Da; if it was from a stranger, who knew what could be inside? But it was right there, and so inviting.

He threw caution to the wind.

Once the wrapping was off, he opened the cardboard box beneath and slid out a large roll of thick fabric. He unfurled it, revealing that the fabric was adorned with a felt Christmas tree with 25 'nubs' sticking out of it. Each nub had a small gold number beneath it, from 1 at the bottom left corner of the tree to 25 at the top. Above the tree were the words 'YOUR ADVENT CALENDAR' in red stitching.

Jamie sighed. So it _was_ about The Other Holiday.

He moved to set aside the box, but stopped when he felt something rattle about inside. Curious, he tipped it upside-down and out slid a smaller box. There were two things inside: a folded sheet of paper and a small plastic ornament hanging from a black ribbon. It was a tree with an apple leaning against its trunk. The paper had the copies of two birth certificates. At the top was an old birth certificate from the late 1970's with the surnames blacked out. At the bottom was a much more familiar, significantly more recent, and much less complete birth certificate. Both certificates officially named their respective owners James.

'1. WE HAVE MUCH IN COMMON.' was written in black marker beneath the certificates. The handwriting matched the tag.

Jamie lost track of how long he had been staring at the paper and the ornament when he heard the door open. "Da?" he called out, keeping his eyes on the objects of his scrutiny.

"Yeah?"

"There's something in the kitchen you need to see. I think it's important."

A moment later, his Da entered the kitchen. He set his guitar case by the table. When he came home with the case, the first thing he normally did was lock it away in the wardrobe in his bedroom. Jamie let his eye linger on the smooth black plastic, but turned his attention back to his unusual gift when his Da came to look at them over his shoulder. He was quiet for a moment.

"You have a look in your eye," Moran said, a strange fondness in his tone. "Want to hear your theory."

"The apple doesn't fall far from the tree," Jamie said, twirling the ornament by its ribbon. "That's what this means. So I think… if more stuff like this turns up, I won't have to hear about spoilers anymore."

Moran affectionately ruffled Jamie's dark coppery brown hair before depositing a kiss on the top of his son's head. Jamie couldn't even find it in himself to protest that, at nearly 12 years old and teetering on the confusing precipice before the full plunge into Alpha puberty, he was too old for stuff like that. After all, it was all the confirmation his theory needed.

* * *

_"Da, you always say I'll find out when I'm older._ _**How**_ _old?"_

_"Can't say. Not my call. You know the spoiler policy."_

_"Yeah, you've said that every single time I've asked, but I don't think letting me know my other parent's name counts as a spoiler! I don't even know if they were a man or woman. Or if they're alive. It's enough to make me suspect that you have no idea who they are. Maybe there are multiple candidates!"_

_The silence was thick. Shame burned across Jamie's cheek, over his ears, and down his neck._

_He glared at the ground. "I… I'm sorry. That was out of line," he mumbled._

_Jamie felt his Da's strong, steady hands land on his shoulders. He looked up, frustrated brown eyes meeting steady, rarely-blinking blue. He was beginning to learn basic genetics in school, and his Da's blue eyes gave away the sole fact Jamie knew about his other parent: that they had to have had his brown eyes. Or, rather, that he had to have inherited __**their**__ eyes._

_"You'll know when you're old enough to understand," Moran said. "But I can tell you this: only two people have ever earned my full loyalty. You're one. And the other gave me you."_

* * *

Jamie opened his eyes. He was sure that the memory of that conversation, now six months old, was not part of his dream. Rather, it had wriggled to the forefront of his half-conscious mind following something that he was not sure how to classify. A dream? A nightmare? He couldn't even remember its contents; all he knew was that a lingering sense of unease still hung over him like a dense cloud.

At breakfast, he mostly picked at his oatmeal. He was too busy being engaged by the tag which had come with his present the day before. He'd brought a sheet of paper and a pen with him to the table and had copied the handwriting on the tag over and over until the copy seemed identical to the original.

"You could be a forger."

Jamie jumped, looking up from his scribbling. "You nearly gave me a heart attack, Da! You're way too good at sneaking up on me."

"It's important to use your talents. That's one of mine," Moran said. He continued to admire his son's handiwork. "They're virtually identical."

"Oh," Jamie said, looking back at his paper. "Yeah. Some of the kids in school ask me to write papers for them in their handwriting. They even say that they'd pay me."

Something gleamed in Moran's eye. Jamie interpreted it as parental concern. "And have you?"

Jamie laughed, waving his hands in a hopefully placating gesture. "No way. That's cheating."

Moran's only response was a vague hum. He reached into one of the pockets of his cargo pants and pulled out a box which was identical to the one that had held the tree ornament and the birth certificate message the day before. He held it out to Jamie. "This was on the step first thing this morning."

The box held an old Polaroid picture and another ornament tied with a black ribbon, this time of the twin dramatic masks of tragedy and comedy. The Polaroid showed what looked like a primary school play, with two children dressed as pigs being menaced by a boy in a wolf costume with an appropriately predatory grin. Even under the wolf whisker makeup, Jamie was struck by how familiar many of the boy's features were. The eyes, the shape of the face, the nose… he saw them daily in the mirror.

He turned the Polaroid over. There were two different sentences. At the top, a loopy, feminine hand had long ago written "Jim steals the show! ~1984". Underneath that, the black marker was back. '2. ACTING WAS A DISTRACTION… FOR A TIME.'"

"He went by Jim," Jamie said reverently, flipping the photo back over to stare at it some more. "And he was an actor?"

"He was bored with it by the time I met him," Moran said. Jamie looked at him in surprise. "Can't spoil it if it's already known, can I?"

"So you can tell me more?"

Moran shrugged. "What I know of the subject. He once said acting lets you metaphorically wear the skin of someone else." He grinned. "And right after that, he said metaphors only go so far."

Jamie shifted in his seat, unsure what to make of the comment. Still, he took the new ornament and slid from his chair, heading to the space on the wall where the calendar had been hung. He slid the ornament of the masks on the nub above the number 2, just to the right of the tree.

The boy looked at the ornaments and the 23 other blank spaces, searching for something else to say. In the end, all he could say was, "I should get ready for school."

* * *

Days flew by, and each one brought a new box and a new message.

An ornament of the symbol for pi accompanied by a sheet of calculus work. Subtracting the date on the sheet with the date on the birth certificate, his father would have been ten years old at the time of the work's completion. '5. MATHEMATICS WAS ALWAYS MY FAVOURITE SUBJECT.'

An ornament of a pair of trainers accompanied by a newspaper clipping about the unfortunate drowning death of a young boy in a pool. The boy's name was blacked out. '12. WAS THE AGE WHEN I KNEW MY CALLING. (AND IT SHALL BE YOUR AGE SOON)'

An ornament of a globe accompanied by a book of names, hundreds if not thousands of them, each with an address. '20. FRIENDS IN EVERY COUNTRY. IT'S A SMALL WORLD AFTER ALL.'

The awe of finally discovering the truth about his heritage had begun to dwindle as the month wore on and the tree filled with ornaments. As his excitement sank, Jamie's strange sense of dread seemed to escalate to the point that the hair on his arms and at the back of his neck would rise a bit every time he found a new package. There was something off, something vaguely sinister, about many of them. When there were only two blank nubs left, he received the most jarring spoiler yet.

He was out of school for the winter holidays, and his Da had left him alone in the flat. Before the start of the month, Jamie would have assumed that such an excursion was for some last-minute birthday or Other Holiday errand, but he didn't know what to think anymore. It didn't help that the shops closed early and his Da had left twenty minutes ago, at half past nine in the evening.

Then there was the fact that most of the day had gone by, but the 24th box had yet to appear. The tension was getting to him.

So, in an attempt to keep from thinking at all, he immersed himself in his current occupation: picking his bicycle lock with a hair grip. He frequently rode his bike in the warmer months, when Belfast only plunged its occupants into frigid mist and rain half the time as opposed to the nigh-constant onslaught that was fall and winter. The odd thing was that, over the past year, he had lost the key to his lock seven times. He was normally very careful with his things, the key included, so he had no idea how it kept disappearing. After the sixth replacement key vanished, his Da told him that if he wanted to use the lock, he'd have to learn to open it himself.

And so he did, thanks in no small part to internet searches on the subject of lock picking. With a lot of patience, practice, and a little natural ability, it was almost second nature to him at this point. He could feel the subtle vibrations through the hair grip as he worked the lock loose internally. Classmates who had seen him unlock his bike in this way had told him that he could steal any other bike, much nicer ones than his own, or possibly even break into the school at night. He had laughed them off.

When someone knocked at the door, his eyes slid shut. Sighing, he tucked the hair grip behind his right ear and stood, leaving the open lock on the table. Nobody was outside when he gazed through the peephole, but he expected as much. He opened the door and sure enough, there was the 24th package.

Like many of the prior packages, the box contained pictures – four of them, to be precise. But the first thing Jamie had seen was the associated ornament, and he was still trying to work through the ball of dread that had settled in his stomach upon seeing it. A gun. Still reeling, he hung it on the second-to-last nub on the tree. He steeled himself and turned his attention to the pictures and the note which accompanied them.

'24. I SHARED TOYS WITH ALL OF THEM. THERE WAS ONE PERSON EVERY MEETING WHO WAS PRETTIEST OF ALL. I WATCHED FOR 13 YEARS BEFORE I PROPERLY INTRODUCED MYSELF. '

Jamie recognized the style of the photos instantly, as they were a part of an ever-popular subject in his history and society classes in school. All four photos featured small groups of teenagers and young adults in paramilitary gear, complete with assault rifles. Two of the photos had banners and signs affiliating the youths with different gangs under the Provisional Irish Republican Army, while the other two photos allied their respective subjects with the Ulster Defense Association.

A red marker had circled one boy in each of the photos. Jamie squinted in an attempt to get a better look. The closer he examined them, the more obvious it became that, despite having all of his head but his eyes and part of his nose obscured by a balaclava, it was the same boy in every photo. Whoever he was, he had been on both sides of the Troubles. He was a man whose principles, if he possessed any, did not mesh at all with the proclaimed national and religious loyalties such groups espoused. Maybe if Jamie peered close enough into those blue eyes, he could make any sense of it.

The photos fell from Jamie's fingers, his gaze widening and fixing on nothing. He _had_ peered into those eyes. He had done so since the very moment he was born.

He needed confirmation. He scrambled to scoop up the pictures and the note.

Putting one trembling foot in front of the other, Jamie made his way to his Da's room. He approached the wardrobe and kneeled by it. With a shaking hand, he removed the hair grip from behind his ear and, following a stuttering exhalation of breath, willed his fingers into perfect stillness. He went to work on the wardrobe's lock.

Two minutes later, he was almost disappointed with how easy it was to pick. "Easy-peasy," he muttered. He shook his head, surprised at himself. Who thought like that in a situation like this?

He eased the wardrobe door open and set his hands on his target: the guitar case. He carefully laid it on the floor and leaned back from it, running his fingers through his hair. It didn't have a lock. The only things keeping him from his suspicions were two metal snaps.

"Perhaps burgling is more up your alley."

Jamie lurched back from the case, slamming his back against the wardrobe. Gasping, he looked to the doorway where his Da stood holding a purple gift bag with green tissue paper sticking out the top. Parent and child stared at each other while Jamie caught his breath.

"I always thought it was strange, that I never heard you play," Jamie said. He swallowed. "You're not just a pro poker player."

"I supplement it with other things," Moran confirmed.

Jamie undid the clasps on the case and raised the lid. He winced as if someone had punched him in the stomach and snapped it shut again. A sharp intake of breath hissed through his teeth as it rushed through his lungs. "You've killed people," he whispered.

"You already knew that. You've heard my Army stories."

"That's different!" Jamie bellowed. "That's… that's a reason!"

"There are always reasons. War is one. So is self-defense," Moran said. "But so is jealousy. So is fun. So is profit. So is boredom. What makes some reasons better than others?" He set the gift aside and strode over to pick up the note and pictures. As he examined them, a strange, fond expression settled over his intense features. "He knew. Had it all figured out. How it's all opinions. And when he approached me, it was like finally finding someone who talked sense. And he could have done it thirteen years earlier. So cheeky, Jim."

"'Cheeky'? " Jamie exclaimed, desperation in his tone. "It sounds like he was stalking you! And… it sounds like he brainwashed you."

"Jamie, don't say things you don't believe to be true," Moran chided. "It makes people sound stupid and cornered, and you will never be either of those things. Remember, I caught his eye because I was on both sides of a war."

"_Why?_"

Moran walked over to his son and sat by him, his back against the wardrobe. When Jamie leaned away from him, Moran found himself missing cigarettes for the first time since the rough feat of going cold turkey while dealing with morning sickness. "It was exciting."

Jamie's voice was flat. "Exciting."

"Very."

They sat in silence for a while with Moran's shoulders tense and Jamie's brows furrowed as he attempted to wrap his mind around what he had just learned. Over ten minutes passed before Moran spoke again. "Do you think that this affects my ability to love you?"

Memories flooded through Jamie. How they had moved all around the isles every three months or so for the first five years of his life, but never feeling intimidated by the constant changes because of his Da. How much pride his Da took in all of his accomplishments, from the very small to the significant. How he had recently begun to notice that other parents – especially ones that were also Omegas – seemed to shoot his Da pitying glances or wrinkle their noses in distaste or whisper to each other and shake their heads when it became clear that there hadn't been an Alpha in the equation for most if not all of Jamie's life.

And he'd been a murderer the whole time. Had been through all of Jamie's life, before he was born, before he was even a collection of cells. Did a new piece of information change how his Da had treated him for every second of his existence?

_Don't say things you don't believe to be true._

"No," Jamie whispered. "You love me more than anything, even if you're pulling a trigger."

The tension flowed from Moran in slow waves; an eye unfamiliar to the ways of Sebastian Moran wouldn't have been able to detect a change in his demeanor at all, but to Jamie, it spoke volumes. "Once, I nearly pulled a trigger _because_ I love you more than anything. Maybe I will tell you about it one day. But not tonight."

Another moment of silence settled between them. Though it wasn't as choked with conflicted and painful emotions, it was different from how things had been between them before and, likely, would never be again. Only a minute or two later, an alarm sounded from Moran's pocket. He pulled out his phone and shut off the alarm. "It's midnight."

Moran stood and walked to the west wall and stopped in front of a blank span of plaster that was no more conspicuous than any other part of the wall. He tapped along it with his right knuckle until he seemed to hit the spot he was going for. Using both hands, he pried a disguised square panel out of the wall, revealing a large compartment which was empty save for a single box. It was identical to the ones Jamie had been receiving over the course of the month.

He handed Jamie the box. "It's three after midnight. You were born exactly twelve years ago this second. I've been waiting to give you these things since you were nearly six months old."

Jamie accepted the box without a word. Instead of the usual note and ornament combo, there was a note and a yet smaller box which was sealed with a loop of paper with the words "DO NOT OPEN UNTIL I SAY" on it. The note had a website address and a password: happy birthday.

Time to start up the laptop.

* * *

The video started the moment Jamie entered the password, and his stomach lurched immediately. The grinning face was all too familiar. He'd seen it countless times in adverts for sensationalist television or news articles that profiled some of the worst murderers and criminal masterminds in history; this man was always near or at the top of the lists. Some American filmmaker had even been nominated for an Oscar the year before for his documentary on the man. But no matter how thorough the presentation of information, no matter how much research was poured in, the people behind such exposés always added disclaimers to their work about how not everything was known about the man and how likely it was that not everything could ever _be_ known.

Like the fact that Jim Moriarty had a son, for example.

"Hello, Jamie," Moriarty said, apparently cheerful. "There are two options here. One: you won't ever have to see this. Maybe you'll have grown up seeing me every single day. Maybe you'll think your name is James Brook. Maybe we'll all live in a disgustingly cozy little cottage with a white picket fence and a green, green lawn and perhaps even own a Jack Russell terrier called Mr. Scraps. Because no one suspects anything from _that_ sort of family. No one, Jamie, suspects Mr. Scraps. And all of that means I won."

His expression darkened. "But option two: I'm dead. I still won – that's not even a matter open for debate – but it was at a personal cost. In which case, happy Christmas, birthday boy. You've lived your whole life as the child of an unbonded Omega with absolutely no information about who I am. Take note that this wasn't for your protection or innocence or anything dull like that."

He laughed briefly. "No, oh no. You see, there's no fun in simply training a child into a life of crime. That's what you do if you want a pet. A wind-up doll. _Bohhh-riiiiing!_ To really excel in a field, you have to _feel_ it. It has to be a part of you, bone and blood and muscle deep. By the time I was twelve, I knew." Moriarty nodded solemnly. "I knew me. And when I killed Carl Powers, everything clicked in place."

And something clicked in place for Jamie. The 12th box, with its shoe ornament and the newspaper clipping.

Moriarty continued. "So, you are old enough to know who _you_ are. You've discovered talents. You've discovered interests. And you can put them to use knowing without a doubt that they are your own, not a product of circumstance. No 'But I was just following orders!' or 'But it's how I was raised!' here, boy-o. Pause this video. Open the box."

Jamie did. The final ornament was a tiny mirror. Small as it was, when Jamie first looked at it, all it reflected back was one eye. Unsettled, he glanced at the time left in the video, debating whether or not he wanted to finish out what little remained of the video.

What Jamie wanted hadn't really been part of the equation for some time. He clicked play.

"You were born with brown eyes," Moriarty drawled. "Most babies have blue at first, even ones who will have brown eyes later. But you had mine from the start, from when you were seconds old and squalling in my arms. Just thought you should know."

A chirping sound came from off screen. Moriarty reached out and brought his phone into the frame. His lips twisted into a wide, bestial grin, and he held the phone up to the camera. The text was just barely legible.

_Come and play. Bart's Hospital rooftop._  
_SH_  
_PS. Got something of yours you might want back._

"Showtime," Moriarty crooned gleefully. He moved toward the camera, kissing the lens before leaning back. "Bye-bye, Jamiebean. Hugs and kisses. Daddy loves you very much."

The screen went black and the video ended not long after. Jamie stared at the completed video for a moment, as if expecting it to suddenly start back up with a loud burst. It didn't.

Finally, he closed his eyes and leaned back against his desk chair, looking boneless and exhausted. "Even with all the… stuff out there about him, I don't know how he died," he stated flatly.

Moran slid out of the shadows of the doorway and into the low lamplight of Jamie's bedroom. "He shot himself in the head," he answered, his arms crossed over his chest. "To give someone no choice but to commit suicide."

"SH."

"Sherlock Holmes."

Jamie's eyes opened. "I've heard that name. Sherlock Holmes is alive."

"Yes," Moran replied. "He is."

The old wooden chair scraped against the floor as Jamie stood. With the ornament box in hand, he walked past his Da and downstairs. His footsteps were heavy and purposeful, as if a great weight pressed him down. He stopped his march in front of the calendar on the wall. The mirror ornament rested in the palm of his hand, and he gave it one last, long gaze before he reached up and placed it at the top of the felt tree.

His jaw set. His lips thinned. His eyes narrowed.

"Brown is just a colour," he said, staring into the tiny mirror. His own eye stared back. "About 95% of all people in the world have eyes like me, if not more. It doesn't get more _ordinary_ than that."

For the first time in his life, James Moran was completely certain about who he was and what he wanted to do.


	3. Felt Like God's Annointed

**NOTE:** Okay, I have absolutely no idea why decided to list this story as complete when I hadn't finished uploading chapters yet. It's been screwy lately, so who knows.

The title of this chapter comes from another Mountain Goats song: "Age of Kings", which might as well be called Reichenbach Feels: The Song if you ask me.

One more chapter after this one. Once again, thoughts greatly appreciated. :)

* * *

Andy finished lacing up her new glossy, candy red knee-high boots before admiring herself in her full length mirror. At sixteen, puberty was finally beginning to be kind to her. She had spent the last couple of years feeling like a rail-thin nightmare creature made entirely of knobbly knees, pointy elbows, and a nigh-uncontrollable desire to pin every Omega in the school against a wall and ravish them into oblivion – even Stacy with the halitosis and headgear. Her muscles and flesh had caught up with the completely unfair sprint her bones had broken into at the start of her adolescence, and now she looked more like a human being than she did an animate scarecrow. People had started referring to her as 'slender' or 'lithe' rather than 'skinny' or, God forbid, 'twiggy'.

Her enthusiasm over the idea of ravishing anyone who smelled good enough was still great, but now she felt like she had a much better chance of achieving that goal. She'd seen the way some of her classmates admired her cheekbones, and such looks were definitely worth a good preen.

Satisfied with her appearance, she strode around the room in a circle a few times, hobbling a bit more than she'd have liked thanks to a lack of experience wearing such high heels. She made her way to the door and slowly descended the stairs, jingling a bit as she went.

John was sitting in his chair and checking his email when he heard the sound of his daughter's descent. "Nice to see you're finally up and about, And-" He looked up. "-ear sweet God, what on _earth_ are you wearing?!"

Andy had on a red dress with a neckline that was as low as its hemline was high, barely covering her chest and bum. White fluff around the edges and a bulky black buckled belt implied that it was supposed to bring to mind a certain jolly fat man's coat. Her boots, also lined with fluff, came up to her knees and the expanse of thigh between the top of her boots and the bottom of her dress was covered in fishnet stockings. A red Santa cap finished off the ensemble, sitting atop her strawberry blonde hair at a jaunty angle.

"My outfit for the Christmas party at Grace's place while her parents are away in Aruba," she explained. She gave a flourishing pose, and she jingled when she moved. "What do you think?"

"What do I- _what do I think?_ I think you look like the bloody result of a gene splicing accident between Father Christmas and a French prostitute!"

"That just happens to be exactly what I was going for." Andy grinned and clapped her hands together, jingling again. "I was going for a Le Marais angle specifically. Does it come through?"

John stared at her. He opened and shut his mouth a few times, but eventually what came from his lips was, "Where's that jingling coming from?"

"Now that's a secret."

"Oh, Jesus Christ," John muttered. He removed his glasses so he could rub the bridge of his nose. "SHERLOCK! Get in here and see what your daughter's done."

"It has never been anything good when she's my daughter," Sherlock's voice called from the bathroom. He emerged in his dressing robe with shaving cream still over his face. He stared unblinking at Andy for a moment. "Not my daughter. Adler broke in while you were in heat and had her way with you while I was asleep. Only explanation."

With that, he turned on his heel. "By the way, John, I will need your assistance in order to finish shaving. If left to my own power, I suspect I will open my carotid artery with the blade." With that, he stumbled back into the bathroom.

John shook his head. "You," he said, turning a pointed stare to Andy. "Young lady, are going upstairs and changing immediately. And then you are going to give those clothes – and I use that term very generously – to me so I can burn them."

"Oh, but-!"

"No buts! Yours is practically falling out of that thing as is. Now get moving; I don't want you in that… mess when your brother gets here."

"Ooh, that's right," Andy crooned, smiling. "We finally get to meet his dirty little secret. He changes his status to 'In a Relationship', but doesn't specify with whom and uploads _no_ pictures that imply who it could be? Very suspicious."

"Or maybe it could be that he's a more private person than you are. Not that that's an especially difficult feat. It only puts him in the same category as everyone else on the planet."

"I'll have you know I maintain an elaborate and flawless cover by audacity. People only know what I want them to know."

"Stop stalling and go change!"

* * *

Abby jolted awake to the sound of the dramatic choral portion of Grieg's "In the Hall of the Mountain King". He blinked blearily as his right hand fumbled for the phone in his pocket. The hand that was clasping his left squeezed, and he felt his companion give an amused huff against the top of his curly head.

"Why that ringtone?"

"The lyrics are eerily accurate for how my family will probably react today," Abby replied. _Slagt ham!_ repeated several times as he looked at the call ID. "Oh God, it's my sister. If I don't answer, she'll just keep calling and leaving maddening voice messages. Her record is 25."

"Put her on speakerphone. I'll even clamp a hand over my mouth so she doesn't hear it." A moment later, in a muffled voice, he added, "See?"

Abby rolled his eyes, but grinned. He tapped the answer button. "Hello, Andy."

"Abby," she replied, drawing out the Y for a good three seconds. "Where are you? I want to see why you're so embarrassed about your sweetheart."

"We're in a cab, about five minutes away. And I'm _not_ embarrassed by him."

"Aha! You fell into my pronoun trap. A boyfriend, then."

"Yes, Andy, aren't you clever," Abby said dryly.

"Why haven't you told me anything about him? Is he a gross old person? Ooh, do you have a sugar daddy? OH! Even better. _Is it Uncle Greg?!_"

"No!"

"Then… what? Ugly?"

"Way off." Abby glanced to his companion, who wriggled his brow in a display of faux-lasciviousness even with both hands still clamped over his mouth. Abby tried to hold in his laughter, but failed spectacularly.

Andy asked, "What are you giggling about?"

"Nothing!"

"You know, you should be nicer to me," Andy said, her tone pouty. "I'm being so considerate by just _asking_ you questions like this, when I could very easily just find it all out on my own. Uncle Mycroft taught me all his tricks before he handed over surveillance of the family to me."

"So you snoop on us and you report to him."

"Bingo."

"And what's keeping him from having someone keep tabs on you?"

"Oh, I know all about them. I just make sure they see what they need to see to suit my purposes."

"Uncle Mycroft created a monster."

Andy laughed. "Be glad I'm a force for good. Well… a force with your best interests at heart, anyway. Let's go with that. Now tell me."

"No. You can wait."

Andy sighed dramatically. "_Fine_. Ah, just a warning: Dad and Papa may be a bit snippy when you get here. I think they're upset about my choice of outfit for an upcoming Christmas party. Papa's burning it now, but I've got a spare at Eleanor's. And a spare spare at Devon's just in case. And a spare spare spare in an undisclosed location."

"Thanks for the notice, but I think I'm about to raise the bar of parental upset. Speaking of which, I have to go. The flat's come into view."

"My anticipation is enormous. You'd best not disappoint!" With that, she hung up, eager to have the final word.

The cab pulled to a stop on Baker Street and Abby turned, catching his companion's brown eyes with his own. He took in a deep breath and gave a smile which was equal parts awkward and fond. "Ready to meet my family, Jamie?"

Jamie Moran grinned in response. "As I'll ever be."

* * *

The bomb would hit thirty seconds after Jamie and Abby were through the door of 221B, after Andy let them in and tripped a bit, accidentally dropping her phone down Jamie's shirt. Once it was retrieved, the countdown began.

10 seconds in, Abby and Jamie hauled in their luggage from the hallway. John fussed, wanting to help, while Andy retreated to lounge on the sofa and Sherlock stood eerily still in the middle of the living room. In all the activity, nobody else noticed that the colour had drained from Sherlock's face the moment he looked at Jamie. Far, far too much of him matched an existing entry in his database for it to be a coincidence. The entry which still, twenty years later, had so many caution signs around it.

His mind raced.

20 seconds in, formal introductions were made. "Jamie, this is my family," Abby said, one arm looped around the taller man's waist. "My Papa, John Watson. My younger sister, Andromeda, but most people call her Andy-"

"Some people call me Miss Andry because they think puns are clever," Andy interrupted, flipping her phone in her palm like a toy.

"That was _once_, and you were being a pain in the arse at the time since you kept going on about how much better girls are than boys," Abby said, pointing at her. "Anyway. And standing there trying to read your entire history in your face is my Dad, Sherlock Holmes. Everyone, this is Jamie."

28 seconds.

"Great to meet you, Jamie," John said, offering his hand for a shake, which Jamie enthusiastically accepted. "I'm sorry, but I didn't catch your last name."

29 seconds.

"Er. Yes. That," Abby said. "It's, ah, well…"

The bomb dropped:

"Moriarty," Sherlock croaked.

The room went silent. John clearly intended to apologize and make some excuse, but he stopped, seeing the resemblance himself. Despite the fact that he would hit sixty in the following year, John's body language immediately went alert and rigid, ready to respond. All of Andy's flippancy was gone, replaced with a look in her grey eyes that could burn through steel and a new grasp on her phone which made the device look like a weapon.

"Moran, actually," Jamie replied. "Less baggage attached. Well, less widely-known baggage, anyway."

John ran a hand over his grey hair. "But… you _are_…?"

"The son of Jim Moriarty and Sebastian Moran? Yes. I'm the white sheep of the family."

Andy was the first in the room to begin to relax. She had been staring intently at Jamie since the revelation, but a small chirrup from her phone drew her attention. She looked down at the device. When she turned her attention back to the scene before her, whatever conclusion she drew about the situation in general and her brother's new beau in particular allowed the tension to drain out of her.

A grin spread across her lips.

"Oh. My. God," she breathed. "This is magical. Absolutely magical. This is why I was born, so I'd be here for this precise moment. I'd go make popcorn, but I don't want to miss a _second_ of this."

"Jesus Christ, Andromeda, now is not the time," John hissed through his teeth.

"But he's harmless, at least to us," the young Alpha insisted. "Just look at him."

"You knew, Absalom," Sherlock said, ignoring his daughter's observation. "Slight flush to your skin, breathing elevated but not remotely close to hyperventilation. Not the shock of an unexpected revelation. You're irritated. With us. With our reaction."

"Right as always," Abby said. His tone was clipped.

Sherlock glared. "How long?"

"From the start. But he tells it better than I do."

Feeling the weight of three sets of eyes (Andy's – amused, John's – curious but leery, Sherlock's – completely impossible to read), Jamie took a deep breath and began the tale.

* * *

It was the first day of Michaelmas term, and Jamie was idly considering if he could convince the post to deliver his mail to the Radcliffe Science Library. He was going to be practically living there until graduation at the end of the year anyway, if staring red-eyed at mountains of research for his dissertation could be called living. He was so caught up in his thoughts that he didn't notice that someone was standing at his side until they cleared their throat.

"Excuse me. Is this seat taken?"

Jamie looked up at the Omega beside him. If Jamie had to guess, he'd say that the young man was a year or so younger than he was. He had dark curly hair and deep blue eyes, but there was one thing about him that had Jamie trying to suppress a grin.

"No, by all means," Jamie said, gesturing to the free seat. He watched as the Omega pulled out the textbook for the class. "Saw a lot of sun this summer, then?"

The Omega laughed, a full and unabashed sound that Jamie found quite pleasing. He lightly touched the bright red sunburn on his neck. "What gave it away? But yes. I was in Australia for most of the break. So from that perspective, it's more like I saw a lot of sun this _winter_. I got this burn even though I nearly bathed in sunscreen every day."

"Australia! Wow," Jamie said. "Went to all the wild parties, I imagine."

"I pulled a few strings and got accepted as an assistant by one of my professors. I spent a lot of time crawling around the Outback and studying inland taipans. I actually helped get venom from a couple of them." He smiled. "I suppose that's my version of a wild party."

"Taipans?"

"Often considered to be one of the most poisonous snakes in the world. They possess a very deadly neurotoxin; it's why I'm in this class at all, really. To fully appreciate how much damage it can inflict on the brain, you have to know what it's like when it's healthy. If that makes sense."

Jamie wondered if his own neck was beginning to flush as much as the one he found himself peering at. "Perfect," he murmured. "Sense! Perfect sense. Yes. My field requires knowledge of healthy brain activity as well, so it's similar. But with fewer deadly, deadly snakes."

The Omega gave him a thoughtful look which soon melted into a smile. He held out his hand to Jamie. "I never did introduce myself. I'm-"

"Silence, class!" the professor crowed as he burst through the door. "There's much to cover in neurobiology, so let's waste no time getting through attendance." Sure enough, he immediately began to barrel through the names on his class list, giving each student barely enough time to announce their presence before moving on.

That is, until he reached a certain name.

"Holmes, Absalom W.?"

The Omega sitting beside Jamie raised his hand. "Present, sir."

"Where have I heard that… ha!" The professor pointed at the young man. "You're Sherlock Holmes' son! The one born the day he came back from the dead! My God, has it really been that long? Stand up, boy, stand up. Let me get a good look at you."

"Oh God, not a fan," Absalom groaned beneath his breath. He sank into his seat and said, "Ah, I'd rather-"

"No need to be shy! Up you get!"

Jamie felt vaguely ashamed of allowing his eye to linger on Absalom's backside as he reluctantly stood, but consoled himself with the notion that other red-blooded Alphas would openly leer. Then there was the fact that his mind was still whirling with the revelation of Absalom's parentage. What a small world.

The professor nodded. "I definitely see some resemblance, but it's an even split on which parent you take after." He clapped his hands together. "See me after class, would you? If you can arrange it so I could meet your parents, I'd be most appreciative."

"I'll see what I can do." His tone was flat as a pancake.

"Wonderful! Everyone, keep an eye on this one. If he's got half the brains of his father, he'll be an indispensable study partner."

Absalom forced a smile as all the eyes in the room turned to look at him, but the moment they turned back to the roll call, he slumped in his seat. "God, how embarrassing," he murmured.

"You don't like being compared to your parents?"

"I hate it." He sighed. "No. I don't know. It's complicated. Everyone who knows my parents always has such expectations of me, ones I don't particularly want to fill. Who wants to live in their parents' shadow?"

Jamie nodded. "I understand completely. I'm in the same boat, Absalom."

"Call me Abby." He gave Jamie a skeptical look. "And really? Who are your parents?"

"How about we make a game of it? When my name is called out, if you think I've grown up under a tougher shadow, I win."

"You win what?"

Jamie grinned. "Your company for some coffee after class."

Abby's cheeks managed to turn even redder as the professor continued to call out names. Finally, he responded, "Deal. When can I expect you to try to prove your point?"

Jamie hummed in thought. "What name did he just say?"

"Montague."

"Probably right now, then."

The professor called out, "Moran, James A.?"

Jamie raised his hand. "I go by Jamie, sir."

"Jamie it is, then. Noted."

When Jamie turned back to Abby, the Omega's eyes were wide. "James is too stuffy," he explained. "And I am most definitely not a Jim."

Never breaking eye contact, Abby murmured, "You win."

"Good. I was thinking a fun little conversation over coffee would be how our parents tried to kill each other before we were born. Still accept our little wager?"

* * *

"And you know what he did?" Jamie asked his audience. "He laughed and said, 'That depends on the odds of you blowing me up after.'"

"What'd you say?" Andy asked, rapt.

"That I'm a true gentleman who never pressures his company to get blown – up or otherwise – on the first date."

Andy howled with laughter, clapping her hands. Abby blushed and smacked Jamie on the arm, chastising him for including that portion of the story. Despite his concern, John found himself suppressing his own laughter, but the moment he glimpsed over at Sherlock, his expression turned grim.

"Entrapment," Sherlock hissed.

"He gave me an out, which I chose not to take," Abby retorted.

"Coercion."

"He said that it would be dangerous to keep seeing each other after that first coffee." Abby crossed his arms. "I don't understand why people insist on translating 'crawled after poisonous snakes all summer' to 'flinches away from anything remotely dangerous'."

Sherlock's voice was low and dangerous. "He can't stay here."

"That's fine. Then I'll stay with him in a hotel. Alone." Deep blue met grey in a steely glare of a challenge. "Who knows what we could get up to, unsupervised like that."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "You wouldn't."

"I'd be shocked if they _haven't_," Andy murmured. John cuffed her on the shoulder.

"This is a package deal," Abby said. "Here or elsewhere, we'll be in the same place."

"Do I get a say in any of this?" Jamie hazarded.

Sherlock and Abby's response was simultaneous, even as they continued to stare unblinking at each other. "No."

Jamie raised his hands defensively and leaned against the wall. "Good to know."

Sherlock turned his back to the room and stormed to the doorway. As he moved, his phone buzzed with an incoming text. He glanced at it, and with his back to his family and the interloper, nobody saw the brief flicker of dread that twisted his features. He shoved the phone violently into his pocket and tried to reign himself in.

"He will stay in 221C once I have locked up my valuable equipment and secured my experiments," he said in as level a tone as he could muster. "Absalom, you will sleep upstairs where your sister will make sure you stay put."

Andromeda very loudly expressed her displeasure at this turn of events, going on about how the upstairs bedroom had been _her_ room for years. When it became apparent that her complaints were not going to change anything, she huffed something about how all the hard work she'd put into avoiding being the responsible child had been in vain and she sauntered upstairs.

"And why can't I stay in the room Gran left for me when I was thirteen? It should just be the bed and some storage boxes now anyway," Abby asked.

Sherlock was still for a long moment, his back and shoulders tense. "John, bring Moriarty's spawn to C in exactly five minutes. I will be finished by then." With that, he exited, slamming the door behind him.

The strain drained out of Abby's posture. He closed his eyes and heaved a long sigh, tilting his head back slightly. He heard footsteps and felt a warm hand lace its fingers with his own. When he opened his eyes and looked up to meet his boyfriend's brown eyes, Jamie gave their joined hands a squeeze and moved in to murmur something into Abby's ear. Whatever it was, it made the young Omega smile warmly.

John watched the display, his brow furrowed and his lips pursed in deep thought.

* * *

That night, Jamie received three visitors. In retrospect, he couldn't resist the urge to call them the Ghost of Christmas Past, the Ghost of Christmas Present, and the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come.

The first came when he was lying on the creaky folding cot that had been left for him in the room. His phone was worthless; he wasn't sure if it was a coincidence or if Sherlock had somehow managed to create some sort of interference in the flat. With nothing else to do, he had resigned himself to an evening of staring at the stains in the wall where damp had once reigned and of uncomfortable slumber.

Until the door opened.

He propped himself up on his elbows to investigate. It was Andy, dressed in a short pink nightgown and an enormous, fluffy lavender dressing robe. Her long strawberry blonde hair was pinned up by several glittery hairclips shaped like butterflies, and her face was covered in a green facial masque.

She strode over to the cot and stood there expectantly for a moment. She cleared her throat pointedly. When Jamie gave her a confused look, she sighed dramatically and said, "Scoot over. We're talking."

"Are we?" Jamie asked, sitting up and making room for her on the cot. "Considering you just stormed in here looking like some kind of avant-garde fashion model and, you know, not saying a word."

"We're talking now, aren't we?" Andy reached into a pocket of her dressing robe and pulled out several cucumber slices wrapped in cling film. She placed two over her eyes and made herself comfortable. "Look at all the words we've said already."

Jamie opened his mouth to reply, but Andy continued. "Do you want to know why I wasn't concerned about your identity once the truth came out?"

"It's a very impressive reason, I suspect."

"You suspect correctly." Even with the cucumber slices over her eyes, Andy didn't fumble as she reached into another pocket and pulled out her phone. "A present from my uncle. Special model, absolutely state of the art in more ways than you could possibly dream of. Incredibly useful for my line of work."

"Aren't you a little young to be working?"

"Think of it as an internship. Unpaid in wages, but a supremely lucrative payout in experience." Andy's brows furrowed over her cucumber. "Now, if I could proceed without interruption?"

"By all means."

"When I dropped this phone down your shirt, it wasn't an accident. It has a special sensor which can pick up DNA, in this case the trace amounts of sweat and oils from the skin of your torso. If you had ever been even _suspected_ of a serious crime, our best and brightest would ensure that your DNA would be in one of our watch list databases." She stretched. "That said, running your genes came up with two partial matches. I think you know why."

"That doesn't really take everything into account," Jamie said, scratching his chin. "What if I was cunning enough to avoid all detection?"

Andy smiled. "That's where the next little part of my speech comes in. I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt in a major way. Officially, your past checks out, and right now that's good enough for me. But if things turn out otherwise, if you hurt my brother in any way, I will see to it that you pay a thousandfold."

"You won't die…" She peeled the cucumber slice off from her right eye, which she popped into her mouth with a flick of her finger. "But, oh, you'll wish you could. Clear?"

"Crystal."

"Good. I like you; you're fun. And it's always a little tragic when you have to get rid of fun things." She peeled the other cucumber from her eye and ate it. She then stood and smiled at him; the drying masque cracked slightly around her lips. "Abby sends a kiss by the way, but I'm not a devoted enough messenger to be a proxy for that. I'm not into other Alphas."

Jamie pulled a sour face. "Yeah, please don't. No offense taken. Send one back for me."

Andy gracefully rose from her seat on the cot. "Will do, but I'm not going to smooch him either." She sashayed to the door, waving a hand lazily. "Just keep our little chat in mind." With that, she left, securing the outer lock.

Jamie slumped back into his lying position on the couch, covering his eyes with his forearm. He was still in that position about two hours later, when a faint knock jolted him from his sleep. Blearily, he rubbed at his face as he struggled to sit up. It took a moment for his sleep-clouded vision to focus enough to realize that he had a second visitor: John, dressed in cozy-looking red-and-green striped pajama bottoms and an oversized sleep shirt. He held a sheet of paper in his calloused and time-worn hand. "We need to talk," he said, his tone serious.

"I don't know if you're more or less direct than the last one," Jamie murmured, still wiping the sleep from his eyes.

John squinted in confusion. "Sorry?"

"Nothing, nothing. What did you want to talk about? There's such a long list of possibilities, after all."

John made his way to the cot and handed Jamie the paper. "Read this first."

Jamie accepted the sheet, which was a printout of a news article from three years prior. The headline read: **DRUNK DRIVER KILLS FAMILY OF FIVE, SELF IN HEAD-ON COLLISION.** He read through the article as it detailed how the Michaels family – Alpha Donna, Omega Stephen, and their three young children ages 8 to 2 – were the victims of a tragic automobile accident at the hands of a driver who had needed to be identified by her dental records.

"Harriet Watson," Jamie whispered, his eyes on the name of the culprit.

"My sister."

Jamie looked up at John, who had been standing rigidly the entire time as he read the article.

John cleared his throat and continued, "She had a drinking problem for years. Alcoholism runs in the family; one of our grandfathers had it bad enough to die of cirrhosis at age 50, an aunt and uncle were in and out of rehab for it for years, it hit our father hard near the end of his life, and then Harry." His mouth quirked into a small, sad smile. "There used to be a family joke: 'A Watson and whiskey go hand in hand.' But everyone who slurred that at the pubs is dead."

Unsure what else to do in this situation, Jamie looked back down at the article, gazing at the faces of the victims and Harry Watson. Her picture had been taken relatively close to the time of her death. She resembled John in the shape of her nose and face, in the set of her eyes and the curve of her ears. Even with the five year age gap, they must have looked quite similar in their youth. However, while John wore his age very well, years of her hard lifestyle had weighed heavily on Harry's features.

"That article isn't even completely accurate," John added ruefully. "In the morgue, they discovered that Stephen had been expecting."

"I'm sorry," Jamie murmured.

John's lips twitched as he accepted the sympathy. "Thank you. You're a smart kid; I bet you can imagine why I've brought this up."

Jamie nodded. "I've got an idea. Would you like to sit?"

"I'm fine. Made of tougher stuff than people like to think." John sighed heavily. "Harry's death put me in a dark place for a while, and once I finally worked through it, I found it really impacted my view of the world. If you'd shown up before… all that happened, or if it had never happened at all, I think my reaction would've been more like Sherlock's. Possibly worse. Certainly louder, at any rate."

He gave Jamie a measured look. "Now, more than ever, I understand the desire to not be compared to family members. I'm pretty happy with this current worldview. I'd rather not have to revise it."

"You won't," Jamie said, keeping his eyes locked on John's. "I swear."

John's countenance brightened slightly. "That's great. Well, I'll leave you to try to get some sleep." He headed back for the door, and stopped. "Ah, and one more thing. Abby is smart and independent. I trust his choices to be good ones, and you seem to make him happy. But if you've somehow managed to trick him…"

"Let me guess. You never really forget what you learn in the army?"

John chuckled as he left. "Got it. Get some sleep."

That wasn't likely to happen. Jamie knew a pattern when he saw one, and he knew that there was still one more person in this household who had yet to give him a piece of his mind. As soon as he was alone, Jamie carefully folded the tragic article and set it on the hard, starchy pillow on the cot. He reached into the deep pocket of his jeans and pulled out his weapon of choice.

If Sherlock already knew everything about him, then there was really no point in hiding anything.

When the door opened for the third time that night, Sherlock was treated to the sight of Jamie kneeling in front of the cabinets which he'd locked his lab materials in, flipping a hairgrip in his hand. The doors were open, though the materials seemed untouched. A display of ability, not an intended robbery.

"You already knew I could get into your things if I wanted. That I'm skilled at lock picking," Jamie said, his back to Sherlock. "Maybe even before you realized who I am."

"Yes," Sherlock replied. "Simple deductions."

"You locked everything up as a test. Would I own up to my suspicious abilities, or would I try to hide them? Well, here they are, in full view."

Jamie finally turned to face Sherlock, taking in the features of the man who had bested his father. Though in his middle fifties, Sherlock had aged well. Aside from the spreading dusting of grey in his curly hair – particularly prominent around his temples – and the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and across his forehead, he could easily pass for a man in his forties. Unlike Jamie's other visitors, Sherlock was not dressed in night clothes. Rather, he wore dark from head to toe: dark shoes, black trousers, dark grey button-up, and what was likely at least the third generation of his signature coat.

"What else can you tell about me?" Jamie continued.

Sherlock took in a small, sharp breath and crisply replied, "You have the ability to mimic nearly any handwriting, owed in no small part to the fact that you have inherited Moran's impeccably keen eyesight and precise dexterity. You've never had trouble making friends and commanding loyalty. All told, you could be the most destructive force to sweep across the world in a generation."

"Could," Jamie said. He pressed his lips together into a thin line and nodded thoughtfully. "Won't, though."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Elaborate."

"What about that _needs_ elaboration? I _could_ be better than both my parents in their fields. Worse. Semantics," he said, waving a dismissive hand. "But I'm not going to be. I refuse."

"One does not _refuse_ psychosis," Sherlock stated. "Madness does not care one whit about personal volition. The fact that you have nearly completed a degree in your field of study without realizing this is deplorable. Your grades are impeccable, so Oxford's standards must be slipping dramatically. Perhaps Absalom can still transfer to a more respectable school."

"Been reading up on my records, I see. But here I thought I got into Abnormal Psychology because it isn't boring."

Sherlock bristled. Jamie seemed to notice and waved his hand in what was likely meant to be a reassuring gesture. "But that's not all," he continued. "It isn't even the top reason. The number one reason is so I'll know." He slowly tapped his index finger against his forehead. "If anything starts to go… wrong, I'll know what to look for."

"There is a reason doctors are discouraged from diagnosing themselves," Sherlock replied. "It is the ultimate in professional bias; an impartial diagnosis is impossible."

"I think you'll find I'm my own harshest critic." The smile that spread across Jamie's lips was slow and small. "As much as your son is my strongest proponent."

"Don't," Sherlock hissed. "You will never have my approval."

"That's really too bad. In that case, at least two people involved in this situation will be very sad indeed." Jamie gave a long sigh, shaking his head in thought. "I wonder who they will be."

Sherlock stood for a time, staring at Jamie as if that act alone could peel the young man's skin from his still living body. Eventually, the words came, and Sherlock delivered the most severe threat of the evening.

He tossed Jamie his phone, which bore the following text message: _Deal's off. Come chat. Will be where you expect. Midnight. _

Jamie's brows furrowed. "Deal?"

"When Absalom was three months old, Moran threatened that the only thing that would keep him from murdering my son would be for me to stay out of your path." Normally Sherlock would cherish how all the colour instantly drained from Jamie's face, how he looked as if the wind was knocked forcibly from his lungs, but he could find no enjoyment in the moment. "Here we are, at the crossroads."

"Wait-!" Jamie cried, lurching to his feet and managing to get a hand on the doorframe as Sherlock slammed it closed. He hissed in pain and curled his fingers into the wood, splintering the nail on his pinkie. Blood dripped slowly from the wound and the flesh of his hand grew inflamed, but all he said in his rough, pain-thickened voice was, "I can help. Please. _Let me._"

Sherlock looked at the hand clawing into the doorframe for a moment and slowly released the doorknob.

"Follow me," Sherlock said as Jamie pushed the door open. He handed the young Alpha his coat. "Wear this. It should blot your scent. Stay out of sight. You'll know when to come forward. And, lastly, do not think that this changes my disapproval."

Jamie shoved his arms through the sleeves, willing himself not to wince as his sensitive and already bruising hand rubbed against the material. He nodded curtly and followed several paces behind when Sherlock strode to the stairs.

Both knew that Jamie would not be the only person in 221 Baker Street to have visitors that night.

* * *

From the age of thirteen until he moved out to attend university, Abby used the small rooms that had once been Mrs. Hudson's flat as his own space. The kindly old woman who had served as a surrogate grandmother for the family had passed away peacefully and without regret when Abby was twelve and Andy eight. In the sad act of going through her personal documents, John and Sherlock discovered that Mrs. Hudson had left them the building. Furthermore, she was very particular about having Abby use her former rooms as, in the words of her handwritten will: "He's getting to that age where a little privacy's worth more than his weight in gold, the sweet thing. Give it a little renovation and redecoration, and I'm sure it'll be perfect for him. P.S. – don't worry about it being on the ground floor when it's _that time_. You've seen all my locks. You never know with London, you know."

And indeed, half a year later, Abby moved his things out of the upstairs room he had always shared with Andy (who had taken to redecorating her new personal bedroom with nigh-religious fervor – a pinker room was quite likely scientifically impossible). He took to this newfound privacy well, appreciating Mrs. Hudson's thoughtfulness. Although John had prepared him for what was to come once puberty started, it was nice to be able to shut himself away from the world on the days when the still new, unfamiliar heat coursed through his blood.

Now, two years after Abby had left London to attend school, Sherlock crept in the dark of 221A, avoiding the few storage boxes within. In the centre of the room, he stopped. Waited for a sign. All the effort he had expended twenty years before had taught him a valuable lesson: one does not find Sebastian Moran. Sebastian Moran finds you. Trying anything else was an exercise in futility.

After a solid minute of waiting in the dark, he heard the light echoing tap of a knuckle against glass. He turned his head toward the sound; it was coming from the small sliding door that led out the back to what had been Mrs. Hudson – and later Abby's – modestly sized garden. Abby had maintained the tiny green space with great enthusiasm, mostly because the flowers drew the attention of passing insects which he could study at his leisure.

Sherlock drew closer to the beveled glass, making out shapes in the moonlight. All the pots with the winter-dormant plants within. Normal. The small patio table which Mrs. Hudson had often had her tea on and which Abby had frequently used for doing classwork in the garden. Normal. The plastic lounge chair pressed up near the door. Someone was reclining on it, their finger making the _tap-tap-tap_ on the glass.

Sherlock pushed the door open.

Although Sherlock had never seen Sebastian Moran in person, there was no mistaking the identity of the man lying on the lounge chair. He was in his mid to late fifties, but he had clearly kept himself quite fit – perhaps a continuation of his army regimen, perhaps mere practicality for his chosen line of work. His hair was steel grey, making it difficult to determine what colour it had once been. Hard lines were set in the flesh of his forehead and the corners of his lips.

Sherlock didn't see a gun on him, but that meant nothing. What he _did_ see were two immaculately wrapped presents sitting beside the chair. His eyes must have lingered on them, for the first thing Sebastian Moran ever said to him in person was, "Don't do combination birthday-Christmas presents. Not humane."

Every cell in Sherlock's body coiled tightly, prepared to spring into action at the slightest provocation. "Says the man who had an infant in his sights. You certainly don't care about being humane."

Moran shrugged. "True. I only care about what's mine. And what's mine loves what's yours. No accounting for taste, I suppose." He looked at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. "What to do."

Sherlock's fists clenched. "In all frankness, at the moment, me killing you with my bare hands is the most appealing option."

Still in the shadows, Jamie opened his mouth to protest, but clamped his uninjured hand over his mouth.

Moran let out a bark of laughter which curled into the cold winter's night in a puff of fog. "You're welcome to try. Probably won't get far. Besides, I don't think our little lovebirds would appreciate the fallout. Speaking of which, did you really think I wouldn't know my own flesh and blood's scent under your stink? Get out here, Jamie. And take that damn thing off before you do."

The young man obliged, shrugging off the coat before moving past Sherlock out into the small garden. He held his hands up in a pleading gesture. "Da, please –"

Moran stood abruptly, glowering at Jamie. "What happened to your hand?"

"What? Nothing – it doesn't matter. Just please don't-"

"Like hell it doesn't matter!" Moran boomed. Jamie winced; it wasn't often that his Da raised his voice, but when it did happen, it was terrifying. He stormed the few feet to his son, and he took his wounded hand in his own, examining it closely. "Not broken, but close."

"What about his hand?"

Sherlock's blood froze at the sound of that voice. He turned stiffly to see his son move out from the shadows of his former room, trailed by Andromeda and a very confused John. Sherlock shot his daughter a displeased look, but she shrugged and chirped, "Prison break."

"Go back to the flat, Absalom," Sherlock commanded, but the young man did not stop his approach.

When he stood directly before Sherlock, he took a deep breath and said, "No, dad, I won't. Please move out of my way." Sherlock squared his shoulders, as if it would help him block more efficiently.

"_He will kill you,_" he hissed. "He promised as much when you were an infant."

Abby's dark curls bounced as he shook his head. "I don't think so," he said, pushing past Sherlock and out to the garden. He approached Jamie and Moran, tenderly taking Jamie's wounded hand in his own. He frowned at the angry red inflammation and dried blood there. "Jamie and I have taken each other hostage. If something happens to me, he'll react negatively. Just as I, for one, am not at _all_ happy that you've hurt my boyfriend." Still holding Jamie's hand, he glared at his father.

Sherlock lurched and opened his mouth to retort. There was a scathing remark about how – technically – Jamie had injured _himself_ ready and willing to slide off his sharp tongue, but he stopped when he felt a firm hand on his shoulder. He wrenched his eyes away from the unpleasant sight of his son so close to the interloping Morans to see that it was John, giving him an expression that he found incredibly difficult to read. His mouth was set in a small, wistful smile, and there was a bittersweet glimmer in his eyes – an even split between pride and sadness.

"Sherlock," John said, his quiet voice thick with emotion. "Let's trust Abby to make his own decisions. He's an adult."

Sherlock watched as Abby refused to flinch as Moran detailed the many horrible and lengthy ways he could inflict pain upon anyone in the Holmes family if Abby allowed anything like what had happened to Jamie's hand to happen again. Jamie hovered, embarrassed, and occasionally interjecting embarrassed complaints. Abby simply nodded at every demand, looking completely certain of his choice to stick with Jamie.

"When? When did that happen?" Sherlock mumbled. "He was just a baby."

He immediately regretted saying that. It was the sort of thing soppy, overly-made up mothers moaned to themselves during University graduations, snuffled into mascara-stained pink handkerchiefs. It was a cliché, the least articulate description of the inevitability that was time's inexorable march onwards. In other words, it was the purest and most lethal form of sentiment, and he was better than something so base.

But then John's hand slid from his shoulder. The pressure of John's blunt nails traced down Sherlock's arm, and his callused palm rubbed against his own as their hands linked together. And at that moment, Sherlock found that he just didn't care if his words were sentimental or not.

He squeezed John's hand tighter. "Perhaps," he said once he fought the lump in his throat. "It's time to consider retirement."

"Are you sure?"

"I have heard pleasant things about Sussex."


	4. BeaKeeping

Something rustled along in the field of tall yellow flowers swaying in the early summer breeze. It shimmied and weaved in a meandering serpentine path, occasionally being quite still and occasionally moving with a surprising quickness. Finally, a small head popped up over the flowers, and a little girl in a white dress muddied from crawling against the damp earth toddled out of the flower patch.

She couldn't have been any older than three years old, and given that a little baby fat still clung to her frame, two and a half was likelier still. Her hair was dark and fell in waves around her shoulders. A daisy chain sat atop her head, and she held it in place with both of her hands as she ran down a short hill.

The little girl lost track of her momentum, and she barreled along until she collided against the legs of a tall figure dressed all in white save for a large hat covered in black mesh. She fell to her bottom and whimpered a little at the pain. Her big brown eyes looked up at the strangely dressed figure; whoever it was reached down to her, offering her one gloved hand. She gasped and scooted back from it.

The figure tilted its head in confusion for a moment before something seemed to dawn on it. It pulled off its black mesh hat, revealing a face the little girl was very familiar with.

"Grandad!" she exclaimed, wobbling to her feet and hurling herself to hug his knees. "Scared!"

"You've seen me in my beekeeping outfit before, Beatrice," he said, stooping over to pick the little girl up.

"Scary hat," Beatrice mumbled, adjusting her crown of daisies.

Her grandfather shook his head, chuckling at the toddler's fidgeting. He carried her down another small hill, toward a picnic table in the shade of a large tree. Several beehives sat in the sun about twenty yards away – close enough to hear the sounds of the bees as they went about their business making wildflower honey, but far enough to keep them from hurting Beatrice, who was still too small to be near them unsupervised.

There was another man at the table. He appeared to have been halfway through arranging a snack of tea and biscuits on the red checkered tablecloth before something else caught his attention. He looked a bit fretful. Beatrice recognized him instantly as she got closer. She waved a hand gleefully in the air and exclaimed, "Granpapa! Hi! Hi!"

The man turned and the tension melted out of him immediately. "Sherlock!" he exclaimed. "Thank God you found Bea. I turned my back for ten seconds and she was gone."

"Don't worry about it, John. She is notoriously slippery," Sherlock noted, setting the little girl down on the seat of the picnic table. "Though to be quite frank, it's more accurate to say that she found me."

"Beatrice Elaine Moran-Holmes, I've told you not to wander off on your own," John chastised. "And look at your dress. Your new baby brothers are leaving the hospital today, and you're going to greet them looking a mess."

Bea pouted, running a finger along a whorl in the table's wood. "S'rry," she mumbled.

John sighed. "Apology accepted." Turning his attention to Sherlock, he asked, "Speaking of slippery things, have you seen Andy? She was here about twenty minutes ago, but she left after cooing over Bea a lot and helping her make that daisy chain."

"Auntie!" Bea crowed, her sulk already forgotten. "Auntie said, um. Said… um…" She scrunched her face up in thought for a moment, but then it came to her. Her expression lit up like the sun. "Auntie said goin' to chat-up girls in village! Said coffee lady has nice legs."

"Oh God," John groaned. "She's playing with fire if she thinks she can flirt with any Omega and get away with it. Who knows what trouble she's getting into up in Uni." Louder, he addressed Bea: "Bea, if anyone like your auntie tries to be friendly with you when you're older, punch them in the face."

"'kay," Bea answered dutifully, not understanding what was being asked of her. Though tested and proven to be an Omega at birth, it would be years and years before any of that meant anything to her.

"Good girl," John said.

A moment of peaceful quiet went by with the only sounds being the gentle wind rustling trees, distant birdsong, and the low buzz of the bees. But with a toddler present, such peace can only last so long. "Bored!" Bea called, slapping her open palms on the wooden seat. "Bored, bored, bored."

John shot Sherlock a knowing look before turning his attention to his granddaughter. "Would you like to draw a picture?"

"Yes!"

"Here, I brought some paper and crayons to the table with the things for tea. You didn't get a chance to see them before you ran off." He set a sheet of paper and the box of crayons before Bea, whose eyes gleamed. "How about you draw the twins? You remember what 'twins' means, right, Bea?"

"Two babies!" Bea exclaimed, holding up two fingers to illustrate. "But they're just pink 'n squishy 'n Hamish is _bald_!"

"Well, they're brand new. All babies look like that when they're new. Why don't you draw what you think they'll look like when they're older?"

"'kaaaay," Bea answered, her tone sing-song. With that, she seized the green crayon and went to work, scribbling intently.

John smiled and ruffled the little girl's hair fondly. He turned his attention back to Sherlock and said, "Ah, Mycroft called a bit ago. He said he would be by within the hour."

"Yay, Gruncle Mycroft's coming!" Bea squealed as she drew a big sun in the sky in her picture.

"_Great-Uncle_, Bea," John corrected, trying to stifle his laughter. "Not, er. 'Gruncle'."

"No, I rather like the sound of it," Sherlock said. "It sounds like a particularly virulent strain of foot fungus, which is shockingly accurate."

John nudged him in the ribs. "None of that. He has the right to see his great-nephews."

"Yes, I'm sure he's quite eager," Sherlock said. "They're less than two days old; a more malleable age you are unlikely to find."

John rolled his eyes. "You've always been so insistent that Mycroft is out to – I don't know - _contaminate_ our family, or some such rubbish. You have absolutely no evidence of that."

"Ah, but I do, John. How could you be so blind? One need only see his dire influence on Andromeda to have my point proven resolutely."

"You mean the influence of giving her some structure as well as something to occupy her attention so she only _sometimes_ makes messes just to have something to do? Yes, I've noticed. It's truly awful, what he's done for her." The sarcastic teasing expression drained away from John's face, leaving something distant and contemplative. "For us. If he hadn't helped me… back then, we probably wouldn't be where we are today. Who knows where we would be."

Sherlock shifted awkwardly in his seat. "I suppose he didn't gain as much weight with age as I suspected he would," he said grudgingly. A buttoned pocket on his beekeeping suit vibrated as his phone signaled an incoming call. Relieved over a convenient excuse to get away from any and all compliments involving Mycroft, he checked the call I.D. "Ah, it's Absalom."

He answered, and in the ensuing conversation John gathered that Abby, Jamie, and the new babies had left the hospital and were en route to the little family gathering planned at Sherlock and John's estate. The conversation was very calm and measured until Sherlock abruptly spoke up:

"Whose voice is that in the background? Is that – Moran is with you?! We agreed at your bonding ceremony that –" He frowned. "I don't care that he flew in from India. He could have come from Mars for all I care, but I will not have him on my land _touching my things_. His mere presence will spoil the honey output for this season at the very least. The bees will-"

He went silent for a moment, and some mad flash of an idea flashed through his eyes. He covered bottom portion of his phone with his hand. "The bees. Of course," he said quietly. He removed his hand from the phone and in a louder voice continued, "Fine. Let him come. But you know my opinion on the matter. Goodbye."

He hung up, dropped the phone into his pocket, and quickly gathered his things. "The hospital is approximately forty minutes away in favourable traffic conditions. That gives me a window of thirty-five to fifty minutes before they arrive with Sebastian Moran in tow. John, mind Beatrice. I have less than an hour to determine if bees can be trained to attack specific individuals while delivering no harm to others. It would solve all of our problems handily." With that, Sherlock set off on his mission. He may not have been as spry as he was in his much more manic younger days, but he could still move with an impressive quickness for a man in his early sixties.

John shook his head. Even after all these years – nearly three decades of madness, adventure, and sheer bloody-mindedness – Sherlock was still Sherlock.

He glanced back to his granddaughter, who was still focused on her drawing. She had sprawled out on her stomach on the wooden plank, kicking her legs behind her and humming a rambling melody. He found himself remembering a time when he thought that his future could never turn out as bright and sunny as this. He remembered grey skies and blood. He remembered the bone-deep dread that the only good thing in his life was living on borrowed time and could be snatched away from him at any moment. Back then, the odds that he would end up sitting here with so many happy years behind him and a few more ahead of him seemed less than zero.

Sometimes – not often, but sometimes – it weighed on him enough that he wondered if this wasn't all a dream or an illusion.

He pinched himself on the arm and winced at the very real pain. Good.

He took in a deep breath, relishing the scent of growing grass and blooming flowers. He felt the speckles of sunlight beaming down on him through the treetop, warming him in spots. And, just for a moment lest the slippery toddler in his care make another break for it, he closed his eyes, enjoying the hum of bees and Bea.

THE END

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**FINAL NOTE: **And now, at long last, this series is finished. It's a bit strange for it all to be over, but so it goes. I'm currently working on other stories for this fandom, so hopefully this won't be the last you see of me. :) Odds are decent I may write more Omegaverse stuff, though probably in a different form than I used here. We'll see.

I just want to thank everyone for reading and that I hope you enjoyed the ride as much as I enjoyed writing it. Once again, I appreciate any and all reviews, follows, and likes any story in this series has gotten. Hearing back from readers in any of these ways really, _really_ means a lot to me and helps keep me motivated. Thank you.


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